In the end all you want is a pen that writes well and a life that you've lived well…

the world was a blur

preoccupied with a smile, not mine to begin with… only a moving glimpse, how we danced to the music… the world was a blur… only the smile that wasn’t mine to begin with… but in the playful blur of the rest of you, it became mine too… while he wove soulful tales under the crescent moon, you swayed… what frenzied trails you left behind for the wretched loon… last night was quieter than his pen on paper, and I could hear him whisper under my breath… he whispered verses of varying sureties… some were breathier towards the end… but some did soar… liberated woah by faith in the satisfaction they bore… some never made it to the lips… tonight though, the smile did… the smile, that wasn’t mine to begin with… made it to my lips…

Every place in every moment is potent with a zillion stories, pictures, poems, music of life and death. I am trying to find my way across the unfathomable ocean of experience and sometimes, I dive into the depths for sunken treasures and dark mysteries. I write. I take pictures. I make music.